Chapter 27

At breakfast one morning Rose Bartlett, the cook, was serving bacon and eggs to Rear Admiral F.X. Bartlett, III, USN.

“Good morning, Mr. Francis,” she said. “I see you’re wearing your new uniform. I can’t believe you’re a full-fledged Admiral. It’s so exciting.”

“Good morning, Rose. Yes, it is sort of exciting. Don’t tell anybody in the family, but I am glad to dump the company on Ed. He’s always wanted to be in charge, anyway.”

“But now you’re gonna be responsible for something bigger than just a shipping company. Like they say, ‘There’s a war on.’ I hope you will come back safe to us after it’s all over.”

“No fear. I’m really only just trading my desk in Boston for one on the other side of the world. When all is said and done, it’s still only a desk job.”

She poured his coffee and said, “You know my boy, Johnny, up and joined the Navy, too.”

“Is that right? I guess I haven’t seen him around here for a while. I wondered what became of him. Where is he?”

“Well, he’s out at the Great Lakes Training Center, but he’s not too happy,” she said.

“I hear that boot camp can be tough for some of the young kids. He’ll get used to it. What is he training to be?”

“Well, that’s the trouble, Mr. Francis, they’re not training him to be anything. He’s been in the Navy for a month and he hasn’t even started Boot Camp.”

The Admiral looked up from his eggs. “In fact, I have a letter from him right here,” she said, reaching into her apron pocket. She didn’t wait for his response; she read:

Dear Mama:

The other fellas and I just finished another detail in the mess hall, mopping down the floor. That makes 16 times we have pulled that detail in one week. I really prefer to get on the painting details, since they are a little more interesting.

Still no word when we will begin our training. Joe Boznik, the sailor who is in charge of the colored detail, says he has no idea what they have in mind. There are not enough Negro sailors to start a training company, and he also says that even if we get trained, where will they assign us? None of the ships have separate quarters for colored sailors, and they sure as heck aren’t going to let us bunk with the white guys.

I wanted to be a gunner, but I’ll be lucky if I ever set foot on a ship of any kind...

Rose folded the letter and said, “The rest is personal stuff.”

“That’s too bad, Rose. But I doubt that I can do anything about it. I’m an Admiral, all right, but I have nothing to do with that part of the Navy,” he said between sips of coffee.

She was not done. “I hear that you arranged for Frankie to be assigned to your staff out in the Pacific Ocean.”

Bartlett read her message at once. “Yes, he’s an Annapolis graduate, and has been made a Second Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps. I hope to have him as my Operations Officer.”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the boys could serve together, considering how they grew up together and all.” She was referring to the unusual arrangement under which Johnny was included in Frankie’s private tutoring sessions. A group of Boston College students had served as teachers for Frankie and his sisters. At Frankie’s insistence, Johnny, although the son of the cook and butler, was included in the lessons. This made it unnecessary for him to attend public school until Frankie went off to Prep School before the Academy. As a result, Johnny’s education was better than that of an average white child, much less a black one of the 1930s.

Admiral Bartlett was beginning to feel ill at ease. He didn’t like a servant trying to wheedle a favor out of him. “I don’t think it would work too well, Rose.”

She played her trump card. “You mean about the confusion in names? There might be too many Bartletts? Well it seemed like a good idea 80 years ago, when my husband’s family named their children after your family. Being slaves and all that, they had no other family name to assume. Your Grandfather thought it was a good idea then. I guess times have changed.”

Francis X. Bartlett III gritted his teeth. This was all code for “We haven’t forgotten that my husband’s father and you may have the same paternal ancestor. Letting the children assume the Bartlett name was a concession to that possibility.”

***

Seaman First Class Joe Boznik called out the names of the men in his permanent work detail. In twos and threes, they were marched away by sailors from various departments on the base to the locations where they would be working for the day. After about ten minutes, the last of his friends marched away to the cadence of “Drip-po, drop-po, wring out the mop-po. Left, o; right, o left.”

“Well, Johnny Boy, it looks like it’s just you an me left. I got orders to bring you back to the C.O.,” Boznik said, wrinkling his forehead. “What the hell did you do to get called to the Old Man’s Office?”

John Bartlett did not know either. He had learned quickly that it was not a good idea to let anybody get used to your name. Whenever they had something miserable that needed to be done you didn’t want yours to be the first name they called out.

Boznik marched him to the headquarters section, and gave him a quick review of how to stand at attention, and respond to meeting the commanding officer. He was told to sit on a bench in the outer office until the yeoman told him he should go in.

After two hours, he finally got the nod, and entered the office of a Lieutenant who looked like he should have retired after the last war. “Seaman Recruit John Bartlett reporting as ordered, sir!” he said.

“At ease, Bartlett.” He looked over the young man in front of him and smiled. “I think we have a mix-up here, sailor. I have a set of orders here promoting one Seaman Recruit John Bartlett to Apprentice Seaman. Then it goes on to order the immediate transfer of the man to the Navy Base at San Francisco as part of a special group being formed under Rear Admiral Francis X. Bartlett, III.

“I’ve got a suspicion that Washington has fu... — fouled up here,” the aging Lieutenant said. “I’ll bet this was supposed to send some relative of the Admiral.“ He looked down at the orders again,” I’ve never heard of him — to some cushy job out in the California sunshine.”

John said nothing.

The officer started laughing to himself, and built up in volume. “I’d love to see their faces when they get some nigger boy instead. What do you say to that, Apprentice Seaman Bartlett?”

John took it as a direct question. “I think the Admiral might be my cousin, sir.”

The answer sent the Lieutenant into such a spasm of laughing that he almost couldn’t get his breath. He finally managed to get out one word: “Dismissed!”